


The Hope Affair

by vysila



Category: Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-30
Updated: 2012-09-30
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:38:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vysila/pseuds/vysila
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Personal and professional lives intertwine</i><br/>Written December 2007 for muncle's Down the Chimney Affair story exchange on livejournal.<br/>Veronicaluv's prompts were:  A Christmas or New Year's related story with an established relationship; Holding hands for the first time; A reunion after one of them has been on a particularly dangerous mission. (I chose the first one.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hope Affair

I was face down on Illya's bed, collapsed in near-catatonic bliss, and the reason for my pathetic condition was hopping around like a demented kangaroo on amphetamines, yanking on his clothes with indecent haste. Here I was, recovering from the best sex I've enjoyed in weeks, and my partner acted like he couldn't get away fast enough. Good thing my ego isn't fragile.

I cracked one eye open. "Where's the fire?"

"No fire, Napoleon." He sounded amused as he ran a hand through his hair - a wasted effort if ever I saw one. I couldn't tell if his amusement stemmed from American slang, my lethargy, or something else churning around in his convoluted brain. 

The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat down on my side of the bed to tug on a pair of low boots, and I managed to roll over onto my back. "Don't I at least get the traditional cigarette before you toss me out?" 

"Cigarettes _before_ tea?" He sounded scandalized, and not just because he's a non-smoker. I had apparently violated one of the strict Kuryakin Laws of Social Custom. Again.

The mention of tea reminded me my mouth tasted like fermented jungle undergrowth, no doubt a souvenir from our just-completed Rhodesia assignment. "I prefer coffee."

He grimaced. "Deplorable American tastes. Anyway, my percolator no longer functions." He didn't have the grace to look embarrassed in the least.

"No coffee?" I absorbed the first disappointment of the day. "Why are we in your apartment instead of mine anyway?" My percolator worked just fine. Although I was a little hazy on whether there was actually any coffee to put in it.

"Because it was six floors closer."

Illya has this annoying habit of taking rhetorical questions at face value. I think it's a tossup whether that's due to the scientist or the prankster in him.

"Some host you are." I glanced over at the bedside clock. The reason for his unseemly haste was suddenly obvious. "No coffee, no breakfast, and for that matter, no lunch."

On cue, my stomach rumbled a complaint. Illya turned a disapproving look on me, but the glide of his big hand across my chest and belly felt pretty forgiving. "There were… distractions." 

Unrepentant, I pushed my hips up and let his hand connect with my cock. "And just _who_ was responsible for those distractions?" 

His grin rushed my defenses like the Packers' starting offensive line. Who would've ever imagined we could be this domesticated? 

"You are shameless. And greedy." He shook his head. "Very tempting." But he folded his hands demurely in his own lap, like a schoolboy pretending innocence, leaving my cock feeling distinctly unloved. I wasn't ready for sex again so soon, but he was right, I am greedy. I wanted his attention, wanted to be the sole focus of all that ruthless intensity, but sometimes it's hard to compete with his other appetites.

A quirk of his lips warned me he knew perfectly well what I wanted; the mischievous twinkle in blue eyes said I would have to work for it. "I wouldn't want you to think I am a bad host. We will go out for anemic coffee. And lunch."

I took the hand he offered and let him haul me to a sitting position. "Just don’t drag me to an automat."

* * * *

He didn't.

We took a cab at my insistence, because his stomach was nostalgic for blintzes and pierogis, and the closest decent Ukrainian food was 50 blocks away. Illya's social conscience preferred the subway, but it was pretty easy to seduce the rest of him into a taxi.

We abandoned the taxi at Cooper Union because of snarled traffic, but didn't make much better time on foot. I stepped off the curb to allow an elderly woman burdened with parcels to pass by, and barely missed tripping over the hippie with a stoned-out vacant stare who was huddled against a lamp post. He was going to end up a snow statue if he didn't take care. 

"You know, friend, I've had better luck navigating Casbah souks than I'm having here."

My partner wore an expression best described as a mixture of mockery and challenge. "Tenderfoot." That expression turned to annoyance when a teen in a frayed military jacket two sizes too large for his thin frame bumped into Illya and ricocheted off without an apology.

For a moment I thought Illya was going to chase after the boy and shake an apology out of him, he looked so nettled. Clearly his sense of propriety had been offended. I've often wondered if his grandmother, she of the cryptic quotes and possibly imaginary existence, ingrained those courtly manners into him.

Illya tucked a hand inside his jacket, brow puckered in concentration. "I think that young hoodlum just tried to pick my pocket!" 

We both looked after the boy, but he'd already disappeared into the crowd. "Hoodlum? Isn't that an awfully bourgeois description for someone who is merely performing an act of pure presence of mind?"

The glare Illya aimed at me was so scorching, I almost lifted a hand to see if I still had any eyebrows. "Very funny."

I shook my head, pretending exasperation. I didn't have to pretend too hard. His tolerance for cold weather really is quite annoying. "If you'd actually _wear_ your overcoat," I gestured to the coat draped over Illya's shoulder, "these things wouldn't happen to you. Did he get anything?"

"No, but I suspect that was more chance than alertness on my part." He sounded more disgusted with his own failing than like an outraged victim of criminal intent. "Someone else jostled him from the other side just as his hand went for my pocket. That was when I felt him. I missed grabbing his hand by that--" he measured an infinitesimal distance with his thumb and forefinger "--much." 

The thief had probably made the mistake of judging Illya by his size and unassuming manner, and thought he was easy pickings. Thrush used to make the same mistake, although they've smartened up lately. "Well, let's hope his next victim is as fortunate as you were, then."

"Perhaps there will not be a next victim. I shall certainly furnish the first police officer I see with a full description."

He was so full of righteous indignation, so unbelievably appealing at that moment, I was blindsided by the irresistible impulse to kiss him. Right there on the street.

Talk about violating decorum.

I ended up ruthlessly strangling the impulse and tried to distract myself from snow-sprinkled blond hair and blue eyes glinting with displeasure. "You know, I spent ten years trying to erase the memory of those fatigues from my skin." I gestured vaguely in the direction the youngster had taken. "And now they’re a fashion statement?"

Illya smiled, good humor restored, and patted me on the back. His hand lingered just a moment longer than strictly necessary. I hope I never get used to the commotion in my chest when he touches me like that, as if he can't help himself.

"You needn't sound like it's the end of the world, Napoleon."

"No, just Christmas Eve in the East Village. Which may be worse."

"Do not worry, Napoleon. I'll protect you." That smirk of his should be patented. I've never met anyone who can convey quite as much arrogant superiority with a simple twist of the lips as Illya.

It wasn't true condescension and I wasn't irritated, but traditions should be observed, particularly on holidays. So I adopted my most affronted sneer, but was spared from having to one-up him by a group of shaven-headed, saffron-robed Hare Krishna chanting their way down the block. They were enough of a new and unusual sight here - not to mention a traffic hazard - that everyone turned to stare. 

I dug in my pocket for my cigarette case with the miniature camera and began snapping away.

"Napoleon, _must_ you play tourist?"

Warmth uncurled in my belly at the memory of the one time we did play tourist, in Rome. Me with a camera slung 'round my neck, and Illya with his patronizing teasing. And the discoveries we'd made during those abandoned, sleepless nights.

"Just taking a few pictures for one of my nieces. She has to do a paper on New York for school and wanted some photos to, ah, capture the flavor of the city."

Illya just rolled his eyes, either too hungry or too impatient to wait, dodged around the gaggle of Hare Krishna devotees and across the street. And since Illya's backside has topped my Ten Best Rear Views list for a long time, I snapped a photo of his retreating figure for good measure.

* * * *

Veselka luncheonette didn't look like much inside or out, but the rich, heavy scents – cabbage and onion and sausage – exploded in my nose, and my mouth watered in anticipation. Kielbasa and borscht don’t figure on my usual menu, but I didn't think my palate would complain too much. There's something to be said for hearty peasant food on a cold winter afternoon.

By the time I sat down, Illya was already conferring with the waitress in their native language. Ukrainian is a second cousin to Russian, close enough that I could catch recognizable words, but not enough to follow their conversation. I could only hope that Illya would be merciful when it came to ordering my meal. The waitress, a matron with artificially dark hair, beamed maternally at my partner. I smiled too, but failed to dazzle; I was just somebody else at the table, too unimportant to notice.

While Illya doesn’t seek attention, he doesn't mind stealing some away from me at times. It showed in his sly corner-of-the-eye glance toward me, gauging my response. Competition for us is like breathing for anybody else - essential. 

He ordered an alarming number of items, including, thankfully, coffee for my deplorable American sensibilities. The waitress snatched two sweaty bottles of pale lager intended for another table, handed them to us and departed with an affectionate, "Spasiba, Illyusha", glowing like an empty-nester who's just been told she has a grandchild on the way.

The ‘Illyusha’ startled me. I’ve called Illya many things over the years, some of them pretty rude, but never that, even in bed. It’s a name that belongs firmly to his youth and his culture, and I have no place in either. Our friendship, partnership and everything else we are to each other – that belongs to the present and, hopefully, the future.

But now that I finally had my partner’s attention, I raised my bottle of Rheingold. "To a much deserved long holiday weekend."

Illya smiled, one of those rare smiles that made it all the way to his eyes. "I'll drink to that," he agreed, stared into my eyes, and then chugged down half his beer. Oh, he was in a mood, all right. That trick he has of relaxing his throat? It works for other things besides beer. I had to wrestle my imagination away from Illya's amazing ability to swallow things before I embarrassed myself.

If competitive teasing were an Olympic sport, Illya would grab the gold, easy. No, on second thought, silver. He's good - but I'm better.

* * * *

Six beers and half a dozen platters later, while I was still trying to choke down kutya, a concoction of berries and nuts drizzled with honey, Illya commandeered my cigarette case to check out the photos.

“This stuff is going to put me into a diabetic coma if I eat any more. Why aren’t you eating it, if it's such a traditional Christmas dish?”

"Because it's too sweet. It'll put you into a diabetic coma." He glared across the table at me, a familiar, disdainful expression, while thrusting one of the miniature photos under my nose. "Napoleon, this is a picture of my ass. I do not think this would be particularly germane to your niece's research."

I admired the view once again. "Oh, I don't know. _I_ certainly find it inspiring. Perhaps I'll ask Carole down in the photo lab to enlarge it, and then I can hang it over my mantel."

"Don't you think Carole might wonder why you're taking snapshots of my rear end?" He tried to snatch the photo out of my hands.

"Ah, ah, ah." I held it out of reach and smirked. Winding him up can be so much _fun_. "On second thought, I wouldn't want to incite a riot in the secretarial pool. We'll just keep it for our personal collection, shall we?"

Illya’s expression threatened mutiny. "If you get to take one, then so do I." 

I tilted my head toward the window. Night had fallen while we dawdled over our meal. "Not tonight, you won’t. No flash."

He folded his arms and leaned back, complete with an impish grin that dazzled like reflection off water. "You have to sleep sometime."

"Oooh, I'm scared." 

"You should be." He leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially. "I'm a spy, you know."

"A spy? Prove it."

"It should be obvious, even to one of your limited intelligence. Can't you see my official spy trenchcoat?"

" _Limited_ intelligence? Who's the one who ran around with a target painted on his back last year? Hmmmm?" I raised an eyebrow in silent invitation to explain that one away. "The trenchcoat proves nothing. I haven't seen you wear one all day. It's merely crumpled on the bench next to you. How do I know that a real spy didn't forget and leave it there by accident?"

"Spies don't make careless mistakes like that. Besides-- Na _po_ leon, why are you making such a strange face?"

"I'm thinking."

"Ah. No wonder I didn't recognize the expression." 

"Insulting me won't earn you any points, tovarisch. Other than the one on top of your head." I snapped my tongue against the roof of my mouth. "I know how you can prove it to me. Show me your official spy gun."

Oh, that wicked, wicked smile. It should be illegal in all 50 states and most foreign countries. It's been known to jumpstart my libido in under a second.

"I would love to show you my weapon." What a pleasant surprise it had been, to discover that, along with all his other advanced degrees, Illya had a Ph.D. in flirting.

I leaned forward to press my forehead against his. "Go on. I’m fascinated." My stomach lurched like I'd taken a headlong drop into free-fall, a familiar sensation when it came to touching Illya. Compared to flirting with him in a cheap diner, all those years spent romancing glamorous women seemed like a hopelessly out of fashion suit. Worse, even, than military fatigues.

Illya drew back slightly, gaze flickering everywhere but at me.

"Stop worrying. In a neighborhood where men kiss men in public, nobody's going to notice us, tovarisch." 

"Perhaps. But I imagine most of them don't see that kiss on the cheek as a prelude to tossing the other chap across the nearest flat surface and ravaging him," he murmured. The accompanying cheeky grin sent scalding heat racing through my veins.

Never let it be said that I don’t recognize a cue when I hear one.

"In that case, why don't we take this somewhere a bit more private?" 

"I thought we had to put in an appearance at headquarters, for the party?" He cocked his head, an amused, quizzical expression on his face. As innocent as if he hadn't managed to come up with the one excuse I'd accept.

And he thinks _I'm_ manipulative?

"We all have to make the occasional sacrifice." I picked up the photos, ready to tuck them into my pocket for safe-keeping, and nearly choked on my last word over what I glimpsed from the corner of my eye.

"Illya… look." I handed him one of the pictures.

"This had best not be another close-up of any portion of my anatomy."

I still wasn't scared. "Would that it were. But you were facing the wrong direction." I waggled my eyebrows.

"Hmmm. You really should do something about that facial tic, Napoleon. You don't want to frighten the other customers." 

Whatever additional withering put-down he was about to unleash on my poor unsuspecting psyche went unsaid. His eyes widened. "Oh."

I was already shuffling through the rest of the photos. "This one. And this one as well."

All told, there were five photographs showing something of great interest to U.N.C.L.E.

"Unless I miss my guess, that's Harry Beamer." I wasn't missing my guess. Not after an up-close-and-personal encounter with the unpleasant Mr. Beamer six months ago, in a Thrush interrogation cell. 

Illya's eyes narrowed and turned as wintry a grey as the day had been. I knew he was remembering the condition I was in after Beamer had finished with me. I've come to terms with what happened then, part of the job. But there's no denying it's different when it's your partner getting hurt. Less forgivable. 

None of that showed in his tightly controlled voice, though. Or on his face. Only in his eyes, if you knew how to read them. That's part of what makes him such a good agent; the enemy never quite knows whether they're getting to him or not. "Mmmm. A particularly nasty piece of work." 

After squinting at the small photo held out at arm's length, Illya gave up and pulled his incredibly ugly, impossibly sexy glasses from his breast pocket. Sometimes I coax him into wearing those stupid glasses to bed, because I've learned there are few sights as stimulating as a naked nerd sprawled across the mattress. Unless, say, it's a naked nerd with a shoulder holster. 

"It appears Mr. Beamer has received a rather thick envelope. I don't recognize the courier, do you?"

"No, but we can run his face through Intelligence records." 

"Just remember not to show Section Three _all_ the photographs, my friend." He was still studying the array of pictures. "Oh."

I knew that _oh_. "What?"

He handed one photo back to me. Our fingers brushed, and I took advantage of that to stroke my thumb across his knuckles. Pure electricity sparked, but it wasn't of the static variety.

"What do you see here?"

I studied the small image carefully. "Beamer, tucking his hand inside his jacket. The courier is turning aside. The handover has probably just been completed. A busy street corner, lots of shoppers. Heads turned to watch the Hare Krishna."

"And here?" Another photograph. 

"Beamer again, stepping off the curb. One arm raised, like he's hailing a taxi. The courier walking in the opposite direction. People are still watching the Hare Krishna." I tsked. "My, what a clumsy child. He appears to have stumbled against Beamer." I looked at my partner, not even trying to hold back the laughter. "He's picking Beamer's pocket."

"That was my impression as well."

_Oh_ , indeed. 

"Do you think he succeeded?" 

Illya handed me the next picture. "You tell me."

There was no doubt he’d succeeded. And that Beamer realized it. The cold fury frozen on Beamer's face, hand clapped over his breast pocket and gazing into the crowd, sent an icy shiver down my spine. "I guess the next victim wasn’t as fortunate as you after all."

"Fortune is in the eye of the beholder." Illya drummed his fingers on the table and raised a troubled gaze to mine. "On the other hand, I think it is very bad fortune for the thief." 

"You mean that young hoodlum?" He was right, of course, but I couldn't resist teasing. He didn't rise to the bait.

"Hoodlum or not, he is in very grave danger." Professional white knight that he is, Illya looked a wee bit disgruntled at the realization we needed to rescue the kid. I could sympathize - but it was much more fun to watch him wrestle with conflicting impulses.

I didn't let any of that show, though, just nodded and checked my watch. "Beamer has a two hour lead on us, and I'm sure he hasn't wasted any of it." I slid out of the booth. "I'll just, ah, step to the washroom and notify headquarters to put an alert out on Beamer."

Predictably, Illya rolled his eyes and reached for his wallet. "Leaving me with the bill. As usual."

"You're the host." I patted his shoulder and turned my head to hide a grin. "Why don't you show the picture of our young friend to the waitress you were flirting with earlier?"

I couldn't see his face, but knew he was wearing his favorite martyred expression. "Stop projecting your bad habits onto me, Napoleon."

It was second nature to let my gaze stray casually over the entire diner, a quick threat assessment. The nape of my neck prickled, and over the years I've learned to pay attention to that tug of intuition.

Illya winced when I squeezed his shoulder, perhaps a little harder than necessary, and sat back down. "Now what's wrong?"

"He's here. Far end of the counter." I was sure it was him. The photos were black and white, but I dredged the rest of the details from memory. The too-large fatigues, curly auburn hair that looked dark brown in the pictures, a face far too young to own such a wary expression.

I've never quite figured out how Illya never appears to turn his head but still can see behind himself. It must be the physicist in him, bending the laws of time and space to be in two places at the same time.

"That’s him, all right." He looked ready to haul the brat into the nearest dark corner to deliver a fast clue by four on the subject of petty theft.

Practically on cue, the kid exchanged money for a large sack the waitress handed to him, and headed for the door. 

"Looks like he's taking dinner home," I said as Illya pulled out his wallet.

"Yes, it does. He is more likely to recognize me, so you follow him." Illya nodded toward the dark-haired matron. "I will question Sasha as to whether she knows anything about our young thief, and catch up with you." 

What the hell we were going to do with the kid once we caught up with him was anybody's guess.

* * * *

The storm had morphed into a blizzard while we were in Veselka and it was hard to see through the driving snow. It felt like it had dropped about twenty degrees in the past couple of hours.

The boy was merely a vague figure, already halfway down the block, making good time against the headwind blowing in from the bay. That wind sliced right through me and only belatedly did I realize that my partner, who professed to love cold weather, had managed to finagle the inside work while sending me out into the storm.

Not that it didn't make sense, because it did. I certainly wasn't going to make any headway with that woman. She hadn't even noticed me earlier, and Illya was apparently on a first-name basis with her.

Most people who see us together assume I'm the one with patience, but that's only because Illya complains about minor annoyances and gets them out of his system. In truth, patience isn't one of my virtues at all and Illya has the patience of a saint - not that he'd appreciate that comparison - when and where it counts. Especially when it comes to the matrons and babushkas. As much as they don't like or trust me, they _do_ like and trust him and he likes them.

The boy turned left onto St. Mark's Place and then skipped kitty-corner to the far side, joining a small parade of folks heading for the church in the middle of the block. 

My communicator whistled and I paused in the shadow of a burned-out street light to answer it.

"Have you lost him yet?" my partner asked.

I adopted my most offended tone. "Ha, ha. As a matter of fact, it looks like he's heading into church."

" _Church_? That seems unlikely, given that he is carrying a hot dinner."

"Perhaps he's attending a potluck Christmas Eve dinner." I didn't believe that myself. 

"It's more likely he is using the crowd to lose us."

"You think he knows we're following him?" The suspicion had certainly crossed my mind already. Any youth who can pick – or at least try to pick – two agents’ pockets, and live to tell the tale had more on the ball than most greenstick Survival School candidates.

I could almost hear Illya's shrug. "Where are you?" 

"Corner of St. Mark's and Second."

"Ah, he is heading home, then. He lives on St. Mark's, close to Avenue A."

"Your friend Sasha knew him, I take it." The boy bypassed the church and kept heading east down St. Mark's. I picked up my pace. "He's still on the move. Probably is going home."

"Do you see any other interested parties?"

"I'm not sure I could tell in this storm. It's hard enough to keep our young friend in view. _Should_ I be seeing other interested parties?"

There were still a fair number of people on the street, most of them hurrying, heads down and shoulders hunched. I kept one eye out for anyone who wasn't scrunched up like a turtle, and the other one on the boy.

"Very likely. Sasha told me that two men were up and down the street this afternoon, asking everyone if they knew a young, redheaded, curly-haired fellow. Who had dropped something in the street and they wanted to return it."

"And did they find anyone naïve enough to believe that?"

"No one in the local Ukrainian community. There is a certain mistrust of outsiders. But of course not everyone on Second Avenue is Ukrainian."

"Do we have a name for our little pickpocket? Just in case, say, I need to shout a warning?"

"Grygory Ivanovich. He goes by Greg, to the great horror and disappointment of the elder generation."

"Adapting to local culture is more horrifying than becoming a thief?" 

"I suspect his career choice does not meet with approval, either, but that complaint was not for an outsider's ears. And I _am_ an outsider as far as she is concerned."

"Just less of an outsider than I am? At least she acknowledged you're alive."

"Is that a bruised ego I hear?" 

"Don't be absurd." I stepped off the curb at First Avenue, and my foot sank ankle deep into snow. If there's one thing I like less than cold feet, it's cold _wet_ feet. I felt the need to share my misery. "My feet are soaked."

"Perhaps someone will massage your poor wet feet later." The warmth and humor in his voice sent a thrill tingling through me from scalp to toenails.

"I like the sound of that. You know, other parts of me are equally cold and wet."

"You are such an opportunist, Napoleon."

"And this is a problem?" I grinned at the communicator, imagining Illya's smile, the way the corners of his mouth turn up just the slightest bit, as if he's afraid somebody might accuse him of having a sense of humor.

"Napoleon, I can see you now, perhaps half a block ahead. Be careful. You are getting close to his building. That is the logical place for an ambush."

"Did Sasha warn him that someone was looking for him?"

"She did, but he is young and thinks he is invincible."

"That sounds suspiciously like the voice of experience speaking."

"Observation only, my friend. I was never that young." 

I wondered just how much of that was truth.

Illya was still talking. "Even if he is on guard, it will not be enough against Beamer."

No, it wouldn't be.

Greg wasn't more than 20 paces in front of me now. "I've almost caught up to him." I left the communicator channel open, but tucked it back into my pocket. Keeping both hands free seemed like a good idea. 

The street looked peaceful, ordinary, or at least as peaceful and ordinary as the East Village gets, but every intuition I owned screamed full alert. I've always trusted those instincts more than my eyes. Danger wasn't just near. It was practically straddling my chest in an attempt to suffocate me. 

I jerked my eyes left, right and then up to the rooftops. Nothing. My stomach was sending up warning flares. "Illya?" I kept my voice as low as I could and still hope to be heard above the wind. "It's coming down. I can feel it."

While I was busily looking everywhere except where I was going, Greg stopped and turned around to face me. The communicator crackled but I couldn't hear Illya's response.

"You got a problem, mister?" Greg's voice matched the ugly sneer decorating his face. "I know you've been following me around." The bag of take-out was in his left hand; I caught the gleam of a blade in his right.

There wasn't time to notice much of anything else besides the four bulky figures looming up behind Greg. Clearly Beamer had also decided this was the logical place for an ambush.

The rumor around headquarters is that Section Two agents have all the fear trained out of them in Survival School. They couldn't be more wrong. We're taught to embrace fear, dance with it and make it our ally. Use it. Listen to it, and learn from it, because controlled fear is what keeps us alert.

Fear, that faithful companion, boosted my reflexes into high gear. I ducked, swept out a leg that knocked Greg to the ground and hopefully out of immediate danger, and dived for the shadows underneath the stoop, dragging the stunned pickpocket along.

Beamer hadn't been expecting competition, but he recouped faster than I liked. I took out one of the muscle, the one coming on fastest, a good, clean shot. He'd be napping for a while. The one figure I'd tagged as Beamer melted back into cover, but the other two were caught flat-footed in the open. Easy pickings for Illya, even from a distance, in a blizzard, and on the fly.

Beside me Greg was shaking off some of his shock. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

Like I said, patience isn't one of my finer qualities. "Just lie still and be quiet, Greg." I took aim at Beamer. Him, I wanted alive and if I didn't get him first, odds were high Illya wouldn't harbor the same benevolent intentions.

Greg wasn't very good at following instructions, apparently, because he scrambled to his feet and back up to the street, stupidly scrabbling in the snow for his dropped knife, a veritable Christmas gift for Beamer. I made a grab for his leg with my left hand, missed, and my shot went wild. 

My heart tried to escape my chest by way of my throat when Illya came on at a run, a quicksilver wraith out of the storm, barreling straight into Greg. I heard the unsilenced report of a gunshot, a startled yell, and then Greg and Illya tumbled to the sidewalk in a graceless sprawl of arms and legs and were still.

_Playing possum, that's all it is_ , I reminded myself, because if I thought anything else, my brain was going to seize up and take the rest of my body along with it. As long as Illya was just playing possum I could think and move.

It looked to be a waiting game from here on out, but as luck would have it, gunshots on Christmas Eve - at least west of the park - proved unusual enough even in the East Village, drawing shopkeepers and diners and residents to the street.

Beamer must've been desperate to retrieve that envelope, because he used the crowd as cover to edge closer to the unmoving tangle of partner and thief. I did the same, easing my way toward him. I guess he was betting I wouldn't try anything in the crowd. 

He was wrong. Or, he would've been, if Illya hadn't gotten to him first. The instant Beamer knelt down beside them, my possum-playing partner lunged upward. I couldn't blame Illya for wanting to get a few licks in, but the sound of a solid thwack - bone against bone - made me wince. I really hoped Illya wasn't going to come away with another concussion. I had _plans_ for Christmas, all of which revolved around a conscious Illya.

Ten seconds later it was all over. By the time I worked through the crowd, my partner stood in the middle of unconscious bodies, and gestured toward Beamer, motionless at his feet. 

"Happy Christmas, Napoleon." He grinned just as if he had good sense.

I grinned back. "For someone who doesn't celebrate Christmas, you give the nicest presents, tovarisch."

* * * *

The Christmas party was winding down when we got back to headquarters with our prizes, but we had no chance to enjoy it. Mr. Waverly was waiting for us, somewhat bemused at having been interrupted by the local precinct's telephone call during his Christmas Eve family dinner.

The envelope, now open, lay on the table in front of Mr. Waverly, alongside its contents.

"Most serendipitous, Mr. Solo. Thrush could have dealt us a serious blow with this information. Had it come to the attention of Thrush Central, U.N.C.L.E. might not have seen the new year." Mr. Waverly had not yet seen fit to share the mysterious information with us. Perhaps he never would. It was supposed to be enough for us to know that we had, once again, saved the world. Or at least U.N.C.L.E.

Oddly enough, it was.

"Yes, sir. We also have the bonus of Harry Beamer and associates in custody."   
I leaned back in my chair and glanced across at Illya. "Thanks to Mr. Kuryakin." Who had shown remarkable restraint in not killing Beamer, but since Mr. Waverly frowned on personal vendettas, I left that part unsaid. Illya acknowledged the compliment by sitting up straighter in his chair, his gaze firmly fixed front and center. It was a little disconcerting not to see him look over at me and grin, or wink - but this time we had an audience.

"Yes, yes, of course." Waverly laid his pipe in the ashtray and fixed Greg, squirming uneasily in the chair between Illya and me, with a fierce glare. "Am I to understand that we also owe gratitude, however indirectly, to this young man's larcenous tendencies?"

The glower that has been known to demoralize seasoned field agents seemed to bounce off Greg's impervious exterior. "Yeah, well, cough up some bread and we'll call it even."

"Indeed?" Mr. Waverly's eyebrows knitted in astonishment. "I believe you owe Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin a considerable debt of gratitude. You came very close to losing your life this evening."

I'd never seen anyone look less grateful. "It wasn't from lack of trying. This bozo," Greg pointed to Illya, "practically broke my ribs when he landed on top of me like a ton of bricks."

This time Illya did turn his head just far enough to fire an amused glance at me. "What a pity _that_ would have been," he muttered.

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. "Mr. Kuryakin, what do we know about Mr., er…"

"Cheburko Grygory Ivanovich, sir." Illya supplied the name Ukrainian style, surname first. He recited from memory the information Section Three had gathered in the last hour. I sure hoped Cheryl had caught that last train to Connecticut after all. If she hadn't, we were going to owe her a whole lot more than dinner and dancing.

"Age, 16. Born May 12, 1950, here in New York. Parents immigrated in 1949. Father, Ivan Andreyevich, deceased, 1959. Mother, Sasha Borisovna, deceased August of this year. No siblings, no other known relatives. Up until this year an honor student at St. George's Orthodox School in the East Village, dropped out of school after his mother's death. Apparently supporting himself by illegal means since then. Currently sharing living quarters on St. Mark's Place with a group of hippies, none of them local that we can ascertain."

Waverly stood up and crossed to the windows, staring out into the storm still laying siege to the city. "What do you have to say for yourself, young man?"

Greg shrugged, not quite a gesture of disrespect. "If you can't come up with the dough, I'll take one of those guns instead."

Illya's hands, folded primly on the table, twitched. No doubt Illya was tempted to knock Greg's head into the table more than once, to pound some manners into him.

"Give you a gun? That hardly seems prudent, considering your criminal proclivities." It's nearly as much fun watching Mr. Waverly jerk someone's chain as it is watching Illya do it. "Given your legal status as a minor, we can hardly allow you to return to your, er, former existence. Nor is our organization in a position to act _in loco parentis_. On the other hand, turning you over to the police would no doubt result in your being remanded to juvenile detention. Which seems rather severe for someone who up until quite recently was an exemplary student."

Mr. Waverly turned away from the windows and shot me an amused glance from under those bushy eyebrows. The twinkle in his eyes alerted me to an already decided-upon strategy. "You seem to have presented me with quite a little quandary, Mr. Solo."

"Ah, sorry, sir."

Greg twitched and jumped to his feet. "You can't send me to reform school! I won't go!"

One thing about Illya; he can pick up on my lead practically through osmosis. He yanked on Greg's arm and forced him back into the chair. "Do not tell us what we can and cannot do. Now sit down and be quiet."

I would've said, _good luck with that_ , considering I'd tried the same trick earlier, but Illya can often project intimidation better than I can. Greg sat down and shut up.

Waverly adopted a thoughtful expression. "A life of crime does seem to have its limitations, Mr., um, Cheburko. Perhaps we could find a compromise?"

Greg was wary, but he was finally beginning to realize he was in over his head. What he didn't realize yet was that his fate had already been signed and sealed by a master strategist. I suspected it would fall to Illya and me to do the delivering.

"Gentlemen, would you please wait outside for a moment?"

* * * *

"Will he keep his promise?" After nearly an hour of silence, Greg had apparently decided it wouldn't be a violation of his personal integrity to talk to us. Quite frankly, anything was better than listening to the whirr of the defroster and the rhythmic snick of the wiper blades, both making me drowsy.

From the driver's seat, Illya glanced into the rearview mirror. "Yes."

Judging from Greg's skeptical expression, he was no more inclined to trust Illya than he had Waverly. "You don't even know what he promised. Or if it's something he can do, or--"

"It does not matter. Whatever he promised, Mr. Waverly will keep his word. Unless you break your end of the bargain first."

Illya's earnest confidence came as a surprise. He was the questioning half of our partnership.

Greg shrugged and turned his face to the side window, pretending to be absorbed in the snow still coming down. "How long before we get there?"

I noted the mileage marker on the side of the road. "About five miles now. Maybe 15 minutes in this weather." Illya rolled his eyes, reliable indicator of his frustration with our slow progress in the storm.

"What's this place like?"

It was my turn to shrug. "You heard what Mr. Waverly said. A very special private boarding school. I don't know any more than that myself."

"A boarding school… kind of sounds like that's just another word for juvenile detention."

"Ah, I also heard Mr. Waverly say that you were free to leave at any time, if you wanted. Although of course that would mean that you broke your end of the bargain then, wouldn't it?"

Mr. Waverly wasn't holding much of a threat over Greg - just reporting him to the police for his brief crime spree - although I didn't doubt he would, if Greg failed him. My gut told me Greg wouldn't fail him. I wondered how he would react when he discovered one of Waverly's grandsons was a classmate.

He turned toward me, and for the first time tonight I saw a real emotion lurking in his eyes. Greg had bravado enough for two men, but that momentary glimpse reminded me of Illya some ten years ago - all arrogance, pride and indifference on the outside, covering up the vulnerable person inside.

"I don't get it. You're not cops… but you risked your lives for me." He rubbed a hand across his no-doubt still sore ribs. Getting the wind knocked out of you, while certainly the least of possible evils tonight, still hurt like thunder. "Who _are_ you guys anyway? Professional do-gooders, or what?"

Illya snorted and I shifted my gaze to meet his. His eyebrow inched upward, daring me to answer Greg's question.

"Something like that." I smiled. Greg didn't need me to answer his concerns; he just needed to figure it out for himself.

"Yeah, no kidding. You got what you wanted - whatever was in that envelope. You could've just turned me over to the cops. But you didn't. And that old guy, he didn't either. Just made me an offer that's too good to be true. What's the catch?"

"Maybe there isn't one." That wasn't true, of course. There's always a catch, and usually it boils down to character. In this case, Greg's.

Illya laughed, a sardonic, harsh sound inside the car. "I think Mr. Waverly is wasting U.N.C.L.E.'s money, This one had the chance at a good education and threw it away to become a common thief. He will not keep his word."

Greg rose to the bait as sweetly as a mark drawn to a lure. "I was mad, okay? She left me. First Dad, then Mom, they left me, and it wasn't fair! I just needed to… not be me anymore. For a while, at least." His voice cracked, just the smallest bit. A sympathetic ache spread from the center of my chest outward. Grief may be universal but it's tough to watch a youngster grapple with it. 

I patted Greg's shoulder, an inadequate comfort, but at least he allowed it. I didn't even look at Illya, but instinctively he knew, for his hand pressed briefly against mine, forming a human chain of compassion.

"Do you really think you deserved to be turned over to the police rather than get a second chance?" I was genuinely curious to hear his answer.

"I guess… yeah? I did steal." His shoulders slumped and suddenly he looked ten years old. Defenseless. "I didn't mean to, but after Mom died, nothing seemed to matter anymore."

"You had other options." Illya sounded quite annoyed. "Unlike others in similar circumstances." Now that _was_ the voice of personal experience.

"Oh, sure. Let Children's Service put me in foster care? Or some place that's more like a prison than an orphanage? What kind of choice was that?"

"An honest one, at least. You were well on your way to incarceration anyway." Illya's sharp exasperation sounded quite genuine, although he plays the bad cop role so well it's hard to tell sometimes. Someday I was going to get him to talk about those early experiences that shaped that façade of cynicism.

"At least it was my own choice." Greg looked up at him, shame etched into his face. "The thing is, I-- liked it. The risk. The thrill. I knew it was wrong, but I liked it. It was the only thing that made me feel alive, after Mom died."

Honesty and integrity. Greg's parents had left a fine legacy behind. As long as I discounted the criminal activity.

"So. Life is only tolerable when you are on a tightrope?" Illya had said much the same thing to Bryn Watson years ago, referring to Albert Sully. _You're both members of the same club_ , she'd responded, looking at him and then me. If I were a betting man - and I am - I'd bet Greg was also a member of that exclusive club.

Greg's jaw dropped. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

"Let's just say - we know."

"Oh. I guess maybe you do. Like tonight." He waved vaguely with one hand. "You must have pretty exciting lives."

"Apparently you do, too."

"Not really, but I guess maybe some good came of it. Those hippies that took me in? They would've starved without me. Starshine, sometimes she'd panhandle, or Zen would play his guitar on the corners, but it never amounted to much."

"It sounds to me as if something did matter to you, at least a little, after all."

He looked a little confused. "Maybe… I never thought of it that way. You know, I was taking dinner home to them tonight. I guess it all got trampled in the street with the fight and everything. Do you suppose…?"

"We will see to it that your friends do not go without their Christmas meal," Illya reassured him.

"Thanks. I just don't like leaving them in the lurch, you know? Maybe somebody else will try to help them out from now on."

I risked patting him on the shoulder. "It sounds like you've been a good friend to them."

Just then Illya turned the wheel hard and the car swung through the gates and onto the landscaped grounds of a country estate. In front of us, the main house was lit up - well, like it was Christmas - cheerful, friendly and welcoming. The door opened as we drove up to the entrance and a man and woman stepped onto the porch, smiling and waving.

Illya left the engine running and Greg hesitated with the door open and one foot on the ground. "Aren't you coming in?" He sounded almost lost.

"Oh, no, Greg." I shook my head and smiled. "That," I pointed to the house and the couple, "is your future. We're already part of your past."

He looked down at his boots. "Would you answer me one thing then, honestly? Before you leave?"

I held up three fingers in a Scouts Pledge and smiled as sincerely as I knew how. "On my honor."

"Who are you guys, really? What kind of work do you do?"

Illya shot me a warning glare, but I thought perhaps, now that Greg had seen headquarters, we were past the need for discretion. An honest answer he would get - although probably not the one he expected.

"Well, it's like this, Greg. Illya and I, and Mr. Waverly, too, you could say that we're in the hope business."

I stole a quick glance aside at Illya and winked. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, but the fierce brilliance of the grin that followed left me breathless. 

As I'd expected, Greg's brows drew together angrily, but after a moment's thought, his frown smoothed out. He looked back at the couple shivering on the porch, then reached out a hand to Illya and me in turn.

"Yeah. Maybe you are at that," he agreed. "Thank you."

* * * *

Illya chose to drop the car off at the U.N.C.L.E. garage.

"We can walk home. It's not so far, and I am very tense after that drive. And now that it has stopped snowing, it's a beautiful night." He was right; the storm had cleared off during our return trip, leaving one of those crystalline, perfect skies where the stars glinted on their velvet backdrop, not to be outshone this night by the city's glare. Unfortunately, it was also hovering around five degrees, according to the bank on the corner.

I simply stared at my obviously insane partner, his eyes sparkling brighter than any star and cheeks flushed with cold. Ordinarily such a sight would light a conflagration in my belly, but tonight it seemed nothing was going to make much headway against my compulsive shivering. I couldn't decide if Illya's brain was simply frostbitten or if the insanity he insisted was in his family had finally claimed its due. His spy trenchcoat was open and billowing. My body temperature dropped another ten degrees just looking at him. 

"I have a better suggestion for relieving all that tension," I grumbled, tugging my collar up higher. After the warmth of the car, the cold was shocking. My fingers refused to work. I missed my warm gloves, probably buried in the snow somewhere along St. Mark's Place.

"Walk first, then sex." 

The snowplows and salt trucks were starting to make headway on the streets by now, but of course that only meant the sidewalks became more treacherous as a result. I resigned myself to a lengthy walk home.

"Are you joking? I'll be frozen solid to the sidewalk in five minutes and then you'll be sorry."

"Well, that should certainly guarantee you'll be stiff." Illya was far more cheerful than he had any right to be. "But I will be sure to defrost you first."

The mental image of Illya's blowtorch hot mouth thawing stiff parts of my anatomy triggered some exceptionally welcome warmth in my extremities. The right fuel works wonders in the most frigid circumstances.

"You're awfully chipper for a man who's causing his partner great pain and distress." I dodged around a portly gentleman who'd had a bit too much Christmas cheer.

"Am I keeping you from an important engagement?"

"Oh, nothing much." I injected as much tragedy into my voice as dignity permitted. "Just a case of smuggled Stolichnaya and a much-deserved, ah, massage."

He stopped dead in the middle of the street. "Stolichnaya?" I don't think he could've looked more pole-axed if we'd just seen Santa flying overhead in his sleigh.

"You should have said something earlier, Napoleon! We could have returned the car tomorrow." 

"Merry Christmas to you, too. Nice to see you have your priorities in order." I tried to sound insulted, but his wide, blinding smile put paid to even the tiniest bit of annoyance. That damned vodka had been worth every bit of the rather complicated effort to lay my hands on it. "Come on, let's go home. I'll even let you massage me with vodka if you like."

He gasped, and I don't think his horror was entirely feigned. "And waste good vodka?" 

I grinned and hoped my frozen face wouldn't crack from the effort. It was payback time for coming in second to a bottle of liquor. Even if it was Russia's finest. " _Is_ there such a thing as good vodka?"

All around us, church bells began to ring, defusing his annoyed glare.

"Midnight." How very strange to feel a nearly forgotten sense of wonder uncurl inside me like a slow-breaking tide. Walking in the cold clear night, Illya at my side and the city's usual hustle and bustle muted - somehow the world seemed a different place. Almost a place where miracles could happen. "It's Christmas." 

"Not for everyone." He didn't sound dismissive at all, the way he often does when I forget cultural differences and make assumptions. He merely sounded thoughtful, as though he were puzzling something out.

Somehow, the church bells, or perhaps my simple statement of fact, had triggered a seismic shift in his mood. Illya, thoughtful, is also a very appealing sight. I've often wondered if he knows that he smiles ever so slightly when his mood drifts into contemplative. "No, I realize that."

"I have been thinking about what you said to Greg earlier." He looked at me, that gentle smile playing around his lips. The unguarded affection in his eyes sliced through me, a sharp stab of joy. Sometimes, when he smiles at me like that, belief in a benevolent god doesn't seem quite so unlikely.

I didn't pretend not to understand. "About being in the hope business?" I shook my head. "Sentimental, I know." The entire drive back to the city, I'd expected him to cut loose with some scathing sarcasm about my wildly sentimental optimism, but he'd remained silent, concentrating on his driving.

"Yes, very. But that is part of who you are." He shrugged. "You are such an optimist."

He didn't hurl the word toward me as an accusation, the way he might have done once. I remembered his smile when I'd made that comment to Greg, the high wattage grin he'd bestowed on me. Something had resonated for him, too, I was sure. It was my turn to smile, warmed through by the unspoken acknowledgement of how far we had come together, the cynical atheist communist and the optimistic agnostic capitalist. "If that's true, then maybe I'm not the only optimist in this partnership."

He laughed, a happy, uncomplicated sound I hear all too infrequently. "Did I mention you are also delusional?"

But he didn't really deny my allegation. One thing Illya has mastered is the art of saying things by not saying them.

We paused on the corner to wait for a break in traffic. Across the street, a small church offered a brief interruption in the gaudy neon glow. A few straggling worshippers were entering.

I shook his arm, intending to tease. "Hey. It's the season for hope. Faith isn't a disease, you know, partner mine, and having optimism isn't exactly criminal." 

He looked sideways at me, an almost hurt expression surfacing in his eyes. "I have plenty of faith, Napoleon. And there are many things I believe in. I just don’t have religion." He paused for a beat, then added good-humoredly, “Unless you count good vodka."

A helpless rush of affection for this prickly wiseacre from half a world away warmed me from head to heels. There are times when I think perhaps I don't deserve him or his unconditional trust in me, but then I always remember my grandmother’s admonition – you get what you deserve. She meant it as a caution on the price of misbehavior, but it works the other way as well, and besides, who am I to argue with my grandmother's wisdom?

He leaned in against me and I wrapped my arm around his shoulders. Just two drunken buddies trying to keep from falling over, that's how it would look to anyone else. An ache tightened my chest, etching pain across my shoulder blades. I don't think I'd ever resented the deception, or the necessity for that deception, quite as much as I did just then.

I tightened my arm around him, but he shrugged out of my embrace, the embrace that was almost a lie, took my right hand in his left, and pressed his broad palm against mine. Our fingers interlocked and he smiled straight at me, unparalleled openness in his eyes and face, as though his last shields of self-protection had eroded like a crumbling windowsill. "You take me for an optimist, do you?"

The blazing intensity in his gaze made me go hollow inside, a declaration of hope and faith that had nothing to do with religion and everything to do with the one thing we never said aloud.

Then he stepped off the curb into the street and I followed his lead without hesitation, pulse pounding in my throat.

Like giddy, moonstruck teenagers, we strolled across the street hand-in-hand, ignoring the angry honking. Stupid stupid stupid, my brain stuttered, someone will see, but his hand wrapped securely, possessively, around mine, and suddenly nothing else mattered but that warm, shockingly perfect contact that bound me to a truth more real than the world around us.

"I hope that some day you and I can walk like this," my own personal madman held up our hands, clasped together, "any time and any place we choose, and no one will look at us twice."

Damned wind, picking up like that, making my eyes burn. I squeezed his hand once, hard and quick, and nodded again.

When we reached the other sidewalk, we just kept on walking hand-in-hand, the most natural thing in the world. The clasp of his hand, the little wistful half-smile on my quirky, brilliant, insanely reckless partner's face-- 

But there's reckless, and then there's foolish, even when it's served up with faith. I know where I stand in that equation, because I stopped in the deep shadows beside the church's wide stone stairs. The tug on his arm brought him up short, and he looked back with a question in his eyes.

"Napoleon?" 

I reeled him in close, and wrapped my arms around him in an embrace that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

"As long as we're dispensing hope, partner…"

I looked into his eyes, wide with surprise at my escalation of boldness, and breathed in the heady scent of hope. And then I finally surrendered to the impulse that had tempted me, not just all day, but for years. I leaned in and kissed my godless communist partner in public, slow and sweet, feeling like my heart would swell up and burst when he returned my kiss. 

On Christmas Eve, right in front of a god I was no longer sure existed, and anybody else who might be watching. 

I figured god, if one existed, wouldn't mind. The rest, we could hope for.


End file.
